


Yellow Kisses

by RedThePear



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Neck Kissing, is this atmosphere erotica or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 20:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10772166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedThePear/pseuds/RedThePear
Summary: A quiet Sunday afternoon can easily change when there is rain outside and a small room with a blazing fire."Et la lampe s'étant résignée à mourirComme le foyer seul illuminait la chambreChaque fois qu'il poussait un flamboyant soupirIl inondait de sang cette peau couleur d'ambre!" -Baudelaire





	Yellow Kisses

December. Outside, it is cold and rain lashes through the gray skies. The pavement shines dangerously and Jean Valjean is hardly bothered in his reading by the rare, hurried footsteps that echo in the streets. The factory is closed and he can enjoy a quiet Sunday, away from the kind but distressing crowd, in front of a yellow fire with dry, simple clothes on. But Valjean does not pay much attention to the words he reads. His eyes lazily survey the black print and his senses focus on the wet patter of the rain and the sharp crackle of the hearth. Everything is so peaceful. His coarse fingers gently thumb the book’s leather binding and relax, making the novel fall onto his lap. It is already late, but how can he know? The sky stays an obstinate gray since morning.

Someone scurries down below, heels singing against the pavement. Valjean is awoken from his dreamlike slumber by the sudden noise and barely catches the book before it falls to the ground. Outside, the same gray skies, the clock faintly ticks in a neighboring room. The room is small and the fire is kindled by gusts of wind, and Valjean finds himself to be quite warm in his woolen plaid. He shrugs it off and settles back down. The yellow light gives golden tones to his simple linen shirt and to the pages of the book that stays open in his hand. Why bother to read, he thinks, and lays it down on a nearby stool. It will be fine to just slumber away.

Another echo of footsteps in the street. The rain has worsened and the passerby struts quickly. Valjean listens to the pavement clicking far away, and closer... and closer... But the steps do not echo away this time. They stop at his door and the loud knocking seems like thunder in the silence.  
Valjean confusedly rushes downstairs, shirt crumpled and hair astray. The wooden door creaks to reveal a dark silhouette in a drenched greatcoat.

-«I was passing by, says Javert. The rain...»  
«Come in, rasps Valjean. I’ve made a fire.»

The stairs whine at the steps of the two. Valjean ushers the soaked Inspector into the small, yellow room and after a few muttered refusals, takes his greatcoat, heavy from the rain to put it to dry.  
«I am truly sorry to impose my presence in such a way, Monsieur le Maire. I had to make my rounds, you see, and-»  
«No worries at all. Is it not the Lord’s day? Even the Law needs some rest, Javert. Now come, take a seat.»  
Valjean gestures to the burgundy armchair in front of the fire, the only one in the room. His woolen plaid still lies in it. His arm shoots out to retrieve it as he nearly forces Javert, once again gently protesting, into the seat.  
«I will go fetch something to dry you. Please make yourself comfortable.»

From the corridor where he rummages in his laundry, Valjean observes the other man. He progressively has reclined in a pose of exhausted slumber and his hair glistens with rain. The fire sends yellow on it and his boots, drenched as well. His head is bent and his dark eyes are half-closed. Valjean is fascinated by this man who he feels he has never seen before. He comes back with a towel on his shoulder, gently treading the used floor to prevent any creaking. He does not want to bother Javert on his day of rest.

Javert, too, observes the mayor’s strange behavior through heavy lids. Madeleine’s broad figure seems softened by the yellow light, and his untidy linen shirt hangs about his hips, revealing the outline of this bust and his muscular arms. What could have been a dawn of a smile crosses his lips and he closes his eyes. A moment after, the sensation of being smothered makes him start only to open his eyes to a cotton cloth rubbing his face and hair.  
«Now, Inspector, calm down, if you catch a cold you will not be able to continue your duties.» Valjean carefully wipes the rain away from Javert’s brow and hair. Or is it sweat? The biting cold and the sudden heat have given a flush to his face, making him look almost feverish. He breathes regularly, chest heaving under his waistcoat, and sometimes gazes at Valjean through lidded eyes. The mayor find himself startled by his own thoughts. This man is beautiful. He feels his own face is flushed, too. He keeps on drying Javert’s hair, and without him noticing the scrubbing has turned to a stroke. He carefully passes his fingers through the tangled strands and watches how the fire’s light catches in them. I can’t dry this properly if it stays this way, he thinks, and carefully unties the dark ribbon that holds Javert’s strict catogan, now disrupted, into place.

As soon as he tugs on the ribbon Javert’s hand shoots up and grips his. Valjean is startled and lets the ribbon fall on the inspector’s shoulders where it glides to his lap. The hand is long, still damp and extremely warm. Feverishly warm, and that warmth rushes through Valjean’s body and grips him whole.  
He moves to the front of the armchair, slowly, not letting go of Javert’s hand that unconsciously guides him. He kneels to face him and gazes at the man languidly reclining in the armchair.  
The yellow light has covered Javert’s face and body. He is not in a quiet slumber but breathes heavily and his eyes glisten intently at Valjean through hooded lids. His entire face glows with sweat and the room’s warmth has him like trapped in his tight collar. His hair is falling to his shoulders, glowing with the fire light, and his feverish hand brings Valjean’s to his flushed face. He does not utter a word.  
Valjean drops the cloth and passes his hands through Javert’s still damp hair that yet has taken in the fire’s heat. He hears the logs crackling and the inspector’s ragged breath, and feels the strange softness of his hair and suddenly, a hand gliding down his back. He lets out a small gasp in surprise and stares into Javert’s eyes that have this yellow light in them too. How beautiful, he thinks, and traces his cheekbones with his thumbs. Javert’s breath now covers the fire’s crackling and the rain. He grips Valjean’s hand once again and guides it to his chest. 

As Valjean unties the inspector’s cravat, the unchanging skies give in to a darker, charcoal gray and the yellow room blazes orange. Javert’s now exposed neck glints with drops of sweat the color of amber. He has placed his hands on Valjean’s hips and tilts his head back, beautifully, unconsciously erotic. The mayor lowers his lips to his neck and starts to trace the lines of the rivulets of sweat. The skin is hot and salty under his tongue, and Javert has placed a trembling hand on his nape. He can hear the moans he vainly tries to supress and this makes him want to hear more. He tentatively bites Javert’s neck and the man instantly arches back, digging his fingers into his hips.  
He feels his shirt being shifted and soon Javert’s burning hands run on his back, touching unknowingly the scars he had done many years ago. Valjean too is drenched in sweat and leans into Javert’s open legs, closer to the heat. His hands feverishly run through his hair, caress his nape and lift it to place small bites on his ears, gently put away his waistcoat to open his shirt. He disengages himself from the other man’s embrace to look at him once more. Javert is entirely bathed in the amber light and on his bare chest sweat and kisses trickle down. He looks at Valjean with desperately lustful eyes, at this man who so diligently kisses the sweat off his body only to make him burn more.

«Monsieur... come,» he says, and slowly gestures to his lap. Valjean slowly approaches and straddles him, pushing him into the burgundy velvet as Javert heaves breathless sighs. He gently pushes Valjean back and looks into his eyes with what he never would have thought could be possible. The mayor stays frozen with surprise and desire, and Javert slips the man’s shirt off before pressing his burning lips against his. 

The rain and the fire slowly die away to leave the two alone in their yellow kisses.

The greatcoat lies neatly folded next to the fireplace while on the floor other clothes lie haphazardly, and in the armchair their owners melt into each other’s touch and the blazing, hot orange light.

**Author's Note:**

> Another ficlet (that seems to have turned into a fic) to practice what I like most, visual atmosphere! It's also my first kinda sexy fic so if you have any comments to make please do :,)


End file.
